*Faith Starling*

'Where the hell is she?'

I was getting kind of anxious – mom's never this late.

I looked at my watch – 3:30. She's fifteen minutes late. This is extraordinarily weird. I sighed and opened a book -- 'The Gunslinger' by Steven King, by the way. It's a good book -- If you read it while listening to 'Hey Jude' it's kind of weird. Not like, 'Brave New World' trippy-weird, but just kinda weird. I contemplate Mom's lateness. I frown at the thought – she's always punctual. Almost never late, and if she is, she calls me and tells me. But not this time . . .

I'm pushed out of my thoughts by looking across the street. There's this total creeper guy staring at me.

*Hannibal Lecter*

Is that her? I look down at the photograph – it's her. Not only does the photograph match –that eye color just isn't found in nature.

I had no idea what I would do when I'd seen her – what? Was there going to be a miraculous thought in my head of what I was to do? No. Nothing happened.

I look up – and she's seen me. 'Oh Christ – this is going to end badly.' I thought. But, to my surprise, she gave me a puzzled, 'creeped-out' look and went back to her book. I scowled – I was hoping for more of a reaction than that! Well, it's not as if she knows.

I'm lost in my reminiscence as I hear an engine in the distance . . .

*Faith*

. . . And I realize Mom's here. That engine can be recognized anywhere. A mustang pulled up – and I immediately shoved 'The Gunslinger' in my book bag and slid into the passenger seat.

She sighed, "Sorry I'm late Faith. That jackass Chauncey Velez had me late looking at a murder case . . . sometimes I just don't get these killers, Faith . . . ." She pulled out off the curb as she trailed off.

I frown, "Mom, that's because you think of murder as an act. You have to remember that act is but one letter away from art. You need to consider it an art."

She frowned and pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head. "Cheer up," I said, "You'll get it. You always do."

"Yeah – but only after you tell me something psychiatrist-y like that -- remember the case with the guy who killed left handed people – and then chopped off their left hand?"

"Yeah – what about it?"

"You told me that sometimes you don't dislike the people that beat you at something, because once you realize they all have something in common, you tend to hate just that feature. And, as it turns out, he'd been refused admission to a college because someone had a scholarship for being left-handed. And his successful brother was left-handed. This guy had been shot down because of left handed people, so he started killing them. And I only realized this after you told me that."

"So?"

"'So?' What do you mean, 'So?' You basically helped me solve that case just by being the Confucius that you are. And now you're telling me this, and tomorrow, I'll see that it was blindingly obvious all along – and the cycle will repeat."

"Well," I muttered, "I can't help being Confucius."